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  This is dedicated to Ruth and Dick, for being the best teachers of love and humanity, simply by example.

  PROLOGUE OCTOBER 2019

  “Fucking hell. I’m going to be found dead in a shitty hotel room in Montclair, New Jersey.”

  It started four days ago.

  I had returned slightly less than a week before from a two-week tour in South America, doing concerts with my band in Argentina, Chile, and Brazil. My wife, Daisy, had accompanied me (as she does as often as her schedule permits), and in addition to the tour being very successful and getting to play for lots of amazing and passionate South American fans, we’d had a blast. Daisy and I always have fun on the road. We can be in the most obscure, dumpy town and we’ll find a way to enjoy it. Staying in cities like Buenos Aires and São Paulo made it even easier, thanks to their choices of wonderful restaurants and beautiful hotels.

  We arrived back home in Los Angeles knowing I had a fairly quick turnaround before returning to the road for a five-shows-in-a-row run on the East Coast. Daisy and I rested up a day or two and then resumed one of our favorite activities, hiking. Living in Malibu means lots of options for being in nature. The beaches, when not packed with people in the summers, are glorious, and there are numerous hiking trails that will give you breathtaking views and intense physical workouts. The day before I was set to head out on the road again, we hiked in Solstice Canyon, a popular trail we frequent regularly. This particular hike, however, was not like the others.

  While Daisy and I are both pretty fit, I tend to have a bit more strength hiking the steeper inclines and usually put a bit of distance between us before I stop and wait for her to catch up. But on this Tuesday afternoon, it was I who was dragging. My energy was really low. I couldn’t keep up with her, and so we ended up cutting the hike short and driving home. I wasn’t feeling any better when we walked through our front door, but I figured a hot shower and chugging some H2O would set me right.

  Now, mind you, I never get sick. Never. Though in my twenties and thirties I battled constant colds and sore throats, the removal of my tonsils in 1993 at age thirty turned everything around. I’ve had maybe two or three bouts of a twenty-four- to forty-eight-hour case of sniffles and cough in the past ten years. I’m so generally healthy and immune to illness I’m kind of a cocky dick about it, as my previous sentence or two would indicate.

  I stepped out of the shower, threw on a bathrobe, drank down a cold glass of water, and curled up in one of the oversized white chairs in our master bedroom. Within minutes I started having cold chills. Chills?? I don’t get chills! For some stupid reason I did not take my temperature, but rather simply threw a blanket over myself and waited for the chills to subside.

  Daisy came into the room, took one look at me, and said, “My love, are you okay? You don’t look so good. Are you sure you can do these shows starting tomorrow?”

  I said I’d be fine by morning. Just needed a good night’s sleep. My flight to Dayton, Ohio, was early—7:00 a.m.—to get me there in time to do a sound check and relax before the concert. I awoke at 4:30 a.m. to finish packing and get to LAX in plenty of time.

  When I opened my eyes, I realized my theory of simply needing a good night’s sleep was just wishful thinking. I felt like a truck had hit me. Extremely lethargic. It didn’t feel like a typical cold or flu, but I assumed it was something in that family of maladies. Being on tour when you’re sick sucks. It’s the fucking worst. You can’t really look after yourself properly going from town to town, hotel room to hotel room. And the fear that whatever illness I might have could attack my throat and compromise my singing is always a real one. As I said, I’ve been incredibly fortunate to have had few to no health issues at all, let alone on tour, but doing concerts when you’re physically not well is stressful and a total drag.

  This particular run of five shows in a row would all be part of my solo acoustic tour. I started doing shows like this around 2009. The initial idea of it, performing alone with just my acoustic guitar and a piano and no band, scared the living shit out of me. But as I continued to do this type of show, I started learning layers of stage performance I had never known before. Telling stories, making the audience laugh, and attempting to make the whole experience feel like a chill evening with friends was an art form quite different than my previous life of playing with a band and delivering a high-energy rock and roll show. Over time I found that as much as I still love band shows and playing with other musicians, it’s the solo show I love doing the most.

  The first show in Dayton was a charity gig sponsored by a local radio station that had always been a great supporter of my music. Because my performance was part of a bigger overall event, I was requested to play only forty-five minutes instead of my usual two hours. As I arrived at my hotel from the airport, still feeling at least five shades of shitty, knowing I only had to play forty-five minutes was a relief. I decided I’d play, get right into my hotel bed, get a great night’s sleep, and wake up having conquered this flu-like nonsense. This was not to be.

  The gig went fine. My voice was strong. The radio station personnel couldn’t have been more grateful and kind. But I was exhausted. My tour manager, Sam Walton (who, unless Daisy is out with me, is my only traveling companion when I do my solo show) got me immediately back to my hotel room to rest. Daisy had work commitments in LA and couldn’t join me on this run but was texting me constantly from the time my early morning flight landed in Dayton. She was worried and regularly monitoring me from afar. I assured her I was okay and that I’d feel “better by tomorrow.”

  The next morning, however, I did not feel better. At all. Much worse, in fact. My voice was fine, but I felt like an even bigger truck had hit me. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and met Sam in the lobby to make our way to the airport and fly to city number 2, Philadelphia. When Sam saw me, he became concerned.

  “Don’t take this as an insult, but you look like shit. Are you okay?”

  I said, “I look exactly like how I feel, but my voice is okay so let’s get me to Philly so I can rest as much as possible before the show. It’ll be fine.”

  We arrived by noon and headed straight for the hotel where I bolted to my room, curled up under the covers, and slept for about two hours before waking up drenched in sweat. Like, seriously drenched. Like, just walked right from an hour in a steam room directly into this bed. At first, I felt a slight sense of relief thinking, Ah, I had a fever, and it broke, and now I’m all good. The problem was that unlike my previous experiences with a fever breaking, I could feel my fever was still very much present. I also started having pretty intense chills.

  I texted Sam and asked him to bring me a thermometer. Moments after he arrived with it, I saw a number staring back at me I’d never seen in my life: 104°. I was burning up.

  Sam said, “Oh, my god! We need to cancel these shows and get you home to a doctor.”

  I said, “Whoa, whoa. Hang on. I don’t cancel shows. Just get me some Advil and it’ll pass. All these theater shows are sold out, and my voice is still totally fine. I think I can get through it. I just really need to rest in between.”

  In my text and actual conversations with Daisy, I downplayed what was going on, not wanting her to worry. But Daisy’s really smart and she suspected she wasn’t ge
tting the whole story, so she called Sam, who ratted me out.

  I said, “Dude!!! What the fuck?? I don’t want her to worry.”

  “First of all, I won’t lie to Daisy,” he responded. “Secondly, we’re both worried about you and feel you should cancel these gigs and reschedule them.”

  Stubbornly, I refused.

  “Sam, I love you for caring most about my well-being, but I know my body and what I’m capable of. Now, let’s go soft-rock the shit out of these Philly fans.”

  * * *

  The Philly gig, like the others on this run, was in a beautiful theater holding about two thousand people. This is the perfectly sized venue for my solo acoustic show: intimate but still very much a concert experience. I walked out onstage to a pretty ecstatic welcome of applause, whistling, and “wooooooo”s, and kicked right into my opening song, “Endless Summer Nights.”

  The show was a blast for me. My voice was strong, and my stories and jokes went over just as I like. I felt a little dizzy a couple times walking between the mic stand, where I play guitar and sing, and the piano, but nothing crazy. I also noticed that unlike a normal solo show where I might get the slightest bit perspired, sweat was pouring out of me like a human fountain.

  I waved good night to the incredible Philly fans, climbed the stairs just offstage that led to my dressing room, and collapsed in a chair, my clothes soaked with sweat. I’d brought the thermometer from the hotel, and it gave me another reading of 104°.

  Sam knocked on my dressing room door, opened it, and gave me the biggest smile. “Boss, I don’t know how you did that just now, but holy shit. That was an incredible show.” By the way, although Sam is my employee, you’ll have to take my word for it that he’s not a suck-up. There’ve been shows where something here or there was just off a bit and he’ll always acknowledge it. The truth matters.

  Sam could see that despite a great show, I was not in great shape, and he got me right back to my hotel room where I somehow got a decent night’s rest. The next morning we headed to Staten Island, New York. It’s only a ninety-minute drive from Philly so I’d have a good chunk of the day to rest before my show there. As if imitating a scene from Groundhog Day, we arrived at the Staten Island hotel, and I headed straight under the covers.

  Again, about two hours later, I awoke drenched in sweat and with another fever of 104°. On this afternoon, however, my illness decided to add something new to the mix. It began as another intense bout of cold chills, with my body soaked in sweat but my hands and feet cold as ice, but within a few minutes I started convulsing in bed. The chills and fever were giving me a seizure of some kind that I could not stop. I was shaking out of control under the covers for about fifteen straight minutes before it slowly and slightly subsided enough for me to painstakingly make my way to the bathroom and turn on a hot shower. I’d never convulsed like that. Ever. It was incredibly frightening, and I was grateful it had passed.

  I needed to get up and get dressed and ready for my performance. Before I even left the hotel room I was perspiring under my clothes. I didn’t tell Sam about the seizure and certainly didn’t volunteer it to Daisy. She was already beside herself with worry and about to cancel her work commitments and fly out to take care of me.

  I somehow convinced her it would be okay and that if it got much worse, I’d reschedule the remaining shows and come home. But, truthfully I had no real intention of doing that. I’ve done concerts under very dicey health situations: strep throat, near-total laryngitis, sinus infections. It’s a rare occurrence, and I just figure out how to get the job done.

  Once, in 1992, I was juggling concert dates, shooting a video for my hit single, “Take This Heart,” and about to produce a track I wrote for the great R&B singer Freddie Jackson. What began as a head cold got considerably worse until I was having trouble breathing and was diagnosed with pneumonia.

  While it didn’t affect any concerts or the shooting of the video, my diagnosis happened just as I was committed to three days in a recording studio producing the song for Freddie. I ended up not canceling the sessions but having a nurse hook me up each day in the studio’s control room to a portable IV, which fed me medication and much-needed hydration while I produced the sessions. Seeing me sitting in a chair hooked up to an IV, Freddie Jackson looked at me and said, “I don’t know whether you’re the most dedicated producer I’ve ever met or the fuckin’ dumbest.”

  The point is: I… don’t… bail.

  * * *

  But now, here I am in city number 4, Montclair, New Jersey. After an even quicker drive from Staten Island of forty-five minutes, I gingerly climbed into this bed late this morning in what is probably one of the better hotels in town, but not exactly the Four Seasons. When you’ve toured all over the world your whole life on the level I have, it’s easy to become a bit of a hotel snob. I’m not at all a diva about it. I’m totally comfortable in any hotel where the rooms are clean and comfortable. This room is clean (I think) but not so comfortable and just a little… sad.

  The gray, rainy weather outside isn’t helping the vibe. I just need to sleep as much as I can to try to muster enough energy for another show tonight, and one tomorrow night and I’ll have done it. I’ll have gotten through a sold-out run of five shows without canceling. I drift off to sleep, feeling the fever that’s making Advil its little bitch.

  A couple hours later, I’m awake, sweat-soaked, hands and feet freezing, and my teeth chattering. I slowly feel the return of yesterday’s seizure, but before I can embrace the fear of it, it is on me. My body is shaking and convulsing uncontrollably.

  I realize it’s worse than yesterday. I’m legit scared. I become acutely aware that I cannot physically do anything to stop this. It’s already lasting longer than the last time. It’s got to be twenty minutes of this by now and it’s still going. What’s happening to my body is violent and out of control. As I continue to thrash around in this bed, I have the thought that even my strong and healthy heart probably cannot withstand much more of this. Am I about to have a heart attack? I can’t even reach my phone to call for help. Will I just die here in Montclair, New Jersey? It’s not as bad as being found next to a toilet with your pants down, Elvis-style, but it’s pretty fucking grim.

  Just as I am reluctantly resigned to whatever awful fate awaits me, the shivering has slowly started to subside. A few minutes later, I am in a new state of terror. I realize I have to get up and try to pull it together enough to get showered and dressed for tonight’s show. The problem is my body is again drenched in sweat under the covers, and the idea of even putting my pinky finger out into the room, which is seventy-two degrees but feels to me like forty-two degrees, fills me with panic.

  Eventually, I start to rise from the bed but am too weak from the seizure. I dry heave but have been unable to eat solid food in over two days so there’s thankfully no disgusting mess for the maid to discover. I actually crawl across the floor to the hotel bathroom before pulling myself up and starting the shower.

  I’m shivering but not seizing. As the hot water covers my head and body, I am consciously grateful to still be alive. Somehow, once again, I manage to make myself presentable (funny enough, I’m having a particularly good hair day) to stagger out of my room, into the hotel elevator, and meet Sam in the lobby to head to the gig.

  My face is ashen and I’m already sweating again. As we drive to the venue, Sam says he really feels we need to seek medical attention for me. I tell him, “It’s been a really rough day, but I can get through this show.”

  We arrive at the venue a mere ten minutes before showtime. The room is packed and I can hear the din of the crowd talking and laughing over the preshow music that starts playing every night as soon as the doors to the venue are open. (Side note: If you ever come to see me live in concert and become aware of whatever song is playing overhead as you settle into your seat, know that it’s a song I personally chose. I fill each night’s playlist with the music of my heroes and friends. Songs I love and admire but
songs I also think set a good tone for my performance, which is about to begin. Everything from Vertical Horizon’s “Broken Over You” to Tove Lo’s “Not on Drugs” to Post Malone’s “Circles” to the Tubes’ “She’s a Beauty.”) I have just enough time to sip some tea that Sam has made me and do a last mirror check before it’s time to head to the stage. I’m already perspiring again, and I have some chills so despite knowing the lights that illuminate me to the audience will get hot, I wear a sportcoat over the open-collared black dress shirt I have on.

  There’s a narrow hallway leading from my dressing room to the side of the stage from which I’ll walk out, and as I walk I slightly lose my balance twice and have to touch the walls to steady myself. I stand in the wings facing the stage until I hear the cue that prompts me onto the stage every night, and I briskly walk out to greet the audience. The place erupts in cheers and whistles and even with the spotlight in my eyes, I can see the first few rows of people and the smiles on their faces are like a shot of pure adrenaline.

  As I strap on my Gibson sunburst J-45 and begin the intro to “Endless Summer Nights,” the crowd is still hooting and cheering, until I sing the first notes. “Summer came and left without a warning…” As the audience hears those familiar lyrics to a song I know they were hoping I’d play, the feeling in the room is that of love. Love between strangers, but love made up of mutual gratitude. My voice feels great. It’s effortless for me to sing and play. Pure joy. I end the song to thunderous and extended applause before kicking right into the next song, “Satisfied.” It’s already like a party with a huge group of friends.

  By the third or fourth song, while I’m thoroughly enjoying the energy between us, I’m starting to feel a little woozy. I normally have a martini onstage, which I sip throughout the show, but feeling the way I do, I have told Sam to fill the martini glass with ice water. Still, I feel like I’m on my fourth martini. I pull up a stool and rest my guitar on my lap. I talk to the audience as I always do. I make a quip about being a bit under the weather but exclaim it’s nothing some Benadryl and vodka can’t cure.